


Buon Anno

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [306]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Angst, Feelings, First Kiss, Goodbyes, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 14:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20437451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: He drinks Robert's wine. That’s the problem.





	Buon Anno

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: For some reason, [this](https://catchclaw.tumblr.com/post/187347521477/silverdaddyrdj-blue-grey-go-so-well-together). (h/t to places for throwing it at me!)

He drinks Robert's wine. That’s the problem. It’s red wine, _ good _ wine, or so Robert says, loudly proclaims to the whole table as he plucks the bottle from the waiter’s hands and shows it off with a twist of the wrist.

“A _ buon anno_!” he declares. “Just like the last ten have been with you, friends. So drink up.”

Never mind that Robert’s own glass is filled with water, not wine, or that they burn through the first bottle and call for a second, a third.

“I don’t even drink reds,” Seb says happily, his body pitching towards Chris’s. “I mean, I hate reds, honestly, but this shit is amazing, huh?”

Chris nods, the stuff catching at the back of his throat: it’s warm and it’s sweet and just a few sips on top of whiskey have made his head feel heavy, like he’s half asleep, and as he looks around the table, at the faces caught in half-shadow by the streetlights, the edges of the world start dissolving a little and some of the sharpness of the night, of this final farewell, aren’t quite as hard to look at or bear.

“Chris.”

“Hmm?”

Seb’s hand on his arm, bold. Squeezing. “You look funny, ‘s all. You ok?”

“‘M fine,” Chris says, and he is. Really. “Just kind of smashed.”

“Pfffft. You?” Five fingers drumming over his. “No, man. You look sad.”

They don’t do this in public, even in front of their co-stars, people who know everything. This is a thing for behind closed doors and hotel rooms and Seb’s place in New York at 3 am. Seb knows that. Seb’s the one who made the rules.

He finds Seb’s eyes, summons a smile. “Dude, you’re drunk.”

“Duh,” Seb says. “Drunk doesn’t mean blind, does it?”

There’s a burst of laughter from the other end of the table where Robert’s holding court and Chris doesn’t have to look to know what he’ll see: Mark and Scar and Don Cheadle (it’s one name in his head; blame _ Boogie Nights _) leaning in to whatever bullshit Robert is spinning, some story of his younger days, of some star he knew way back when, of some moment in time when Chris was barely alive and Robert was hard into living.

It doesn’t help that tonight, Robert is wearing his glasses because tonight’s about family, about giving the old crew one last hurrah at some fabulous outdoor restaurant in Rome. If Chris had arranged this, it would have rained, probably, but for Robert, the stars are out and the night air is holding on to just enough of the heat of the day. Everyone else is lit up and having a fucking wonderful time and Chris isn’t, no, he’s not, but that’s nobody’s fault but his because his heart, no matter how much he drinks, is a self-centered bitch and he’s not going to get what he wants, he’s always known that, for as long as he could actually articulate to himself what that is, it’s just--he’s always had scraps to hang on to, you know? A scene, a stupid press junket, months spent together on set. The golden thread of possibility that one night or one morning after hours of filming there’ll be a knock on the door of his room or his trailer and the person on the other side will be Robert, not Seb.

“Hey, man,” he’s imagined Robert saying, squint smiling from behind dark frames, “I can’t fucking sleep but one of the sound guys hooked me up with some killer donuts. Want one?”

But they don’t eat in his daydreams. At least not for long.

“Pup,” Robert sighs behind his eyes when he should be sleeping, when Seb’s crashed out on the other side of the bed, “you’re always so goddamn eager.”

“Can’t help it.” His beard brushing Robert’s chest, his fingers tangled in Robert’s belt, that first touch of hard flesh. “Don’t want to.”

A firm hand in his hair, tugging at the long ends. “Oh, honey. Then don’t.”

He tips his glass back and drinks too much too fast because after tonight, there’s no conceivable way that can happen. The movies are done, the whole saga, kaput, and they’ll never be together like this again, in their own soft bubble of unreality; the real world beckons. Tomorrow, they’ll all move on to the next job.

Oh, they’ll see each other, because Hollywood’s a small town. They might even get together again, this core group. Hell, they probably will. But it won’t be the same as this: separate from the world, swimming in fine wine and the pleasure of each other’s company--no children, no wives, no partners. Just them.

Seb’s stopped touching him. He’s leaned over to talk to Mackie. It’s a good time to make his escape.

“I just,” he says into the din, to no one in particular. “Need a sec. Be right back.”

He pushes away from the table and his eyes well up, because he’s fucking drunk. Shit.

Five steps and he’s off the patio; a few more and he’s inside the restaurant, calm and quiet. For tonight, Robert’d bought out the whole place. But it’s good because the lights are off for the most part, blazing in the kitchen, the sound of chatter and laughter, but here, by these empty tables, he can almost pretend he’s in private. The shadows are kind of awesome that way.

A deep breath, another, and the tears pull back. His heart’s pounding in his ears; he can hear it now. His ears are hot and his throat hurts. Jesus. Why the fuck had he drunk that damn wine?

_ Because _ , his head says unhelpfully. _ It was Robert’s _.

“What is awesome about you, bro, is your uncanny ability to want the impossible.” Scott had said that to him once in a faux English accent when they were kids on a PBS kick. “You wanna know what the worst part of that shit is?”

“No,” Chris’d said.

“The worst part, _Christopher_, you asshole, is that you usually find a way to get it.” His brother’s fingers on the remote control, drumming over the volume. “It's so fucking annoying." 

“Maybe I deserve it, huh? You ever think of that? Or maybe I’ve earned it, or something.”

“Dude,” Scott had said with a snort, like Chris was the dumbest rock in the box. “I doubt it.”

But it was true, even now: he usually got what he wanted, no matter how lofty--by hook or by crook or by kismet. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed into the darkness. Yeah, well. He wouldn’t this time.

“So your retreat wasn’t total.” A voice dead ahead. Robet’s. “Well, good. That’s something.”

Shit. “Um, no, I wasn’t retreating. Just needed some air.”

“And naturally you went inside to get it. I get it. That whole outdoors thing’s overrated.”

“I’m fine,” Chris says, even though nobody asked.

“Ok, cool.” Robert’s close enough that Chris can see his head tilt. “I kind of assumed you weren’t dying. Unless you are. Are you?”

“No. I’m just drunk.”

A chuckle. “That seems to be a popular ailment this evening. Maybe the _ buon anno _ was too much, huh?”

“Maybe.”

He can see Robert’s face now, cut in kitty-corners by the drift of the streetlight. He has to ball his fists up and breath and breath because the red wine part of him, the whiskey, is bellowing at him to reach out and touch.

“Chris.” There’s a steel in the word, a little bit of a chide. “You don’t have to stay, you know. If you want to head back to the hotel, you won’t insult me one bit. I’m sure you and Seb need some time to say your _adieus_.”

“Me and--?” His face is hot now, a different sort of red. “We don’t--”

“Need time to say goodbye? Yes, you do.”

“We’ll see each other again. We always have.”

“I know.” There’s a hand on his elbow suddenly, an uncertain grip. “But it won’t be the same, trust me. When you’re working together, there’s a thing, you know, like a spark that doesn’t die, that like feeds on itself, but when the job ends, even if you’re still together, it’s different.”

Chris’s head hurts. His head hurts and his chest does and there are motherfucking tears in his eyes again. Goddamn it. “It’s not serious,” he says. “Seb and I.”

“He thinks it is.”

“How do you--?”

“The way that he looks at you sometimes. The way that he touches you when he thinks no one’s looking. It’s pretty obvious, you know, if you have eyes.” The fingers on his arm flex, tighten. “He’s in love with you.”

His skin is singing. His hands are shaking. “No, he’s not.”

“Yeah, he is. I can’t believe he’s never told you.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know.”

Softer now, words he has to strain to hear. “Or maybe he’s afraid to, hmm? Love is a damn scary thing.”

And there’s a sound, one like the day breaking, and it’s only when their mouths meet that Chris understands where it’s coming from: a place dug deep in the well of his heart, an ocean that roars somewhere in his soul.

“Oh,” Robert says, very gently. “Do that again.”

Robert’s tongue is warm and soft and outside, just beyond the doorway, their friends are still laughing, still shouting, still dwelling in the echo of the evening, but in here, unseen, the world is made only of them and he’s afraid to breathe, afraid to think too hard, afraid that if he says the wrong thing or moves the wrong way, the dream will end and he’ll wake up.

“You are the most beautiful creature.” Robert nuzzles his neck and winds his arms around it. “I thought that, you know, from day one, year one, and I’ve never gotten over it, how goddamn beautiful you are.”

Chris’s hips wrench. He pulls Robert close, closer. It feels like he’ll never be close enough. “Then why not--why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I hate settling for half-measures.” A chuckle with no humor in it. “It’s gotten me in trouble my whole life. Better to say nothing, to do nothing, than to be forced to settle for only a taste of you.”

This time, the kiss feels more desperate, hungry. Robert’s nails are in his neck and he’s squeezing Robert’s ass and he wants so much so badly that it makes him feel sick.

“Please,” he says when Robert lets him. “Please, fuck. You can have more. You can have whatever you want from me. Anything.”

And he can feel it, the moment the spell breaks, the moment that this part of Robert that he’s never seen slides back into its shell. A retreat.

“It doesn’t work that way. You know that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” A hand in his hair. “This is it, Chris. This is all we can have. And that’s exactly why we’ve never done this. Not once in a decade, jesus.” He shudders; Chris gets a hold of his hips. “And thank god we didn’t because if there was another day after tonight, I don’t know how I’d be able to resist. God, you’re so--”

He groans when Chris kisses him, crush, collision; groans again when he yanks himself away.

“Stop it.”

“You don’t want me to." The words are vicious in his mouth. "I know you don’t.”

“Yeah, well, too fucking bad for both of us, huh? Because we have to stop. This is as far as it goes.”

They’re still holding each other, Chris thinks. They’re still holding each other but Robert is leaving. Some part of him is already gone.

“See? This is what I didn’t want. Half-measures.” Robert’s eyes are cut by shadow, his voice jagged. “Because this is worse than nothing at all.”

Chris swallows. “Not to me, it’s not. At least now I know what it’s like to kiss you. To hold you. It would’ve killed me not to know.”

Robert touches his face. “Which is the difference between you and me, honey. It’s the knowing that’ll kill me, each and every goddamn day. Knowing what I could have, but I don’t.”

*****

Later, when the hour is small and his hotel room is quiet, Seb says: “Seriously, babe. You ok?”

And when he can’t hold the tears back this time, Seb doesn’t ask. He just rolls over and pulls Chris into his arms and for that night, until the sun rises, they leave it at that.


End file.
